Harnessing the Roots of Rage

By Dr. Andria Glasser Das

“No one is going to want to play with you.  You’ll never have any friends if you continue acting this way.”  Hannah sat with her head hanging down, crying softly.

 God, I feel like cutting my tongue out.  How could I say those things to her?  I love her with all my heart.

 “Even your sister isn’t going to want to play with you.  You’re always nasty to her.  You’d better shape up.”

 If I were one of those women proficient at the feminine art of making oneself vomit, I would have--to punish myself as much as purge my guilt.  Unfortunately, purging doesn’t come easily to me, physically or emotionally.

 In these moments, I feel that if I am only facial stubble and a cigar away from being my own much-despised father.  I have spent nearly my entire life hating him, wishing for his painful and protracted demise, fighting against him, against the very idea of him and all he is.  And now I’m him.  All she did was yell at her sister for messing up her puzzle.  Poor kid.  My little angel, whom I would do anything to protect, who under no circumstance would I ever let come in contact with my father.  My poor daughter has my father for her mother. 

 Where does rage go when it cannot be unleashed on its rightful recipient?  Even if it could be expressed to the right person, would it then disappear?  Or would its roots remain, so that each time it was cut down, through therapy, introspection, or insightful epiphanies, it would merely grow back?

 I’m no stranger to self-exploration.  I’m fairly self-aware, often painfully so.  I love my kids and want to be a good and loving mother.  Much of the time I am.  But then I have moments like the one above, where I seem to be channeling the spirit of the one person in this world I least want to emulate.  Why is this happening?  Why, despite all my efforts at “working through” the issues of my childhood, do I sometimes still act exactly like my father? 

 I don’t know whether this is “learned behavior” or whether it is hardwired into my genes, no different than the texture of my hair or the shape of my face.  It really doesn’t matter.  Either way, I know I need to change.  This is not a new realization.  I’ve been trying to change for a long time.  What is new is the realization that the tendency to behave this way may never go away, despite all my efforts and the sincerest of intentions.  So instead of signing on with yet another therapist or making another tearful vow to myself that I won’t ever berate, demean or be overly critical of my children again, I decided to recognize that the urge to behave in this way will rear it’s head now and then--when I haven’t slept sufficiently, when I’m hungry, when I’ve had to give one too many reprimands or time-outs or broken up the fifth fight in as many minutes.  Or maybe the urge will arise out of nowhere as it sometimes does, the wrong neurons firing together or the wrong mix of hormones in my blood. 

 It is important for me to acknowledge the randomness of this urge.  I don’t want to kid myself that if I just get enough rest each night or have enough breaks from the kids that I won’t snap, because then I will be caught off guard.  The only way to avoid having the sins of my father visited upon my own children is to maintain constant vigilance over my words.  It is not easy, especially for me.  A cornerstone of my personality had always been impulsive, uncensored speech.  For better or worse, I said aloud whatever was in my head.  Some people found me offensive and some found me refreshing.  Either way was fine with me. 

 Now though, the stakes are higher.  I realize my words have the ability to shape my children’s image of themselves, not just in the moment, but for their entire lives as well.  As parents, our interactions with our children provide the lens through which they learn to see themselves.  This lens does not disappear when they turn eighteen and move out of our homes.  It becomes internalized and they carry it with them forever.  They will hold that same lens up to their own children when the time comes, just as I have. 

 And so, rather than hope that with enough work I can shed my own internalized lens, I need to give up some of my beloved spontaneity and think before I speak.  It sounds simple.  It sounds like something most people do automatically and most people do—when speaking with strangers, colleagues or friends--but maybe not when speaking to their loved ones, especially their children who are often treated as emotional extensions of ourselves.  And we all know we are hardest on ourselves. 

 It is not an effortless or elegant solution.  It is just a brute-force, moment-by-moment evaluation of what I am about to say.  Are my words shaming or affirming?  Is my criticism constructive or destructive?  Am I teaching my children to see themselves clearly or through the distorted lens that is a legacy from my father?  I’m not always successful.  Truth be told, I’m rarely successful.  I still snap at them at times.  I still speak harshly sometimes.  I sometimes still hear myself say things to them that make me ashamed. I still, at times, hear my father’s voice coming out of my mouth. But it’s happening a little less now and when it does happen, I acknowledge it and do something my father never did.  I apologize.  And I hope that with my constant vigilance, I can create a new legacy for them.